A murder of crows lifts its bundled
body from the telephone wire and
moves north. The vibration of the wire
lingers as long as the lighted disk
of a full moon phase and this fall
Sunday boils like a nerve storm.
Girl without style,
I walk my little
barefoot walk. I walk a tainted
tempered walk, kindled and caught. The
blister on my toe throbs and the sky’s
pregnancy wanes. My skin flakes, I grow
horns, and the crows are goblins getting smaller.
Tiny soft bites, the quarreling
peonies flutter at my bare
ankles. A small god shines there too.
I know, sustenance is female but more
more and more I learn to live with lack.